Club 42

by Joanna Angel

  It was apparent that today I was not going to get a massage, oral sex, or even a Gatorade. I barely got an invitation to sit on my own couch. I was sweaty, dehydrated, and defeated. And I felt like the shower was the most sensical place to solve the bulk of these issues.

  “I’m gonna shower. Save some dragon slaying for me after I freshen up.”

  “Alright!” he said, grinning. He shifted his position on the couch, and I could see his balls spill out from his boxers as he took a giant bong hit. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to put them in my mouth. He sucked the smoke out of that bong the same way he sucked on my clit, with so much force and determination to get every ounce of goodness into his mouth. That stupid lucky bong was getting all the attention.

  I walked in the opposite direction of the “meeting” on my couch, through my kitchen, and into my bathroom (yes, my bathroom was off the kitchen). I closed the door. Today I wore a green checkered summer romper, which I peeled off my body. I stood in my bathroom naked, scrutinizing myself. My legs and arms had developed some new muscles I’d never noticed. My stomach was by no means a six-pack but it was like . . . a one-pack. I felt taller—walking around in high heels and being forced to thrust my small chest out all the time had retrained me to have great posture. I wondered whether my mother would be proud—she always used to yell at me for slouching. Perhaps that would be a good way for me to justify my stripping job to her if I ever decided to tell her. People always seem to villainize stripping as some sort of last resort job, taken only when times are desperate, but I could simply explain that it was the only option I had to improve my posture.

  I stepped into my shower. It was mildly glamorous for a Brooklyn apartment. I think the landlord at some point attempted to remodel the shower, but stopped and gave up halfway through. The tiles on the wall were an ugly shade of brown, and several of them were missing. However, the shower had a sleek brass nozzle, AND a removable shower attachment, to boot. The tub was porcelain white, and I guess compared to the tile, it looked pretty modern. Any appliance in a New York apartment that worked and was purchased after 1940 can be classified as “modern” on Craigslist.

  I turned the water temperature up. Even on a really hot day, I loved a good hot shower. I took a tube of Tahitian vanilla-scented liquid soap I’d stolen from the fancy hotel Rob and I stayed at. The smell alone transported me from my railroad apartment to an exotic beach. I squeezed the soap all over my body, and I let the liquid run all over my skin. It was creamy white, like the texture of jizz, but a vanilla-scented jizz. I rubbed the soap all over my nipples and down my new and exciting one-pack stomach. The soap suds dripped down my pussy, and I loved the visual of the thick cream running all over my lips. It looked dirty, but in a good way. I never used to get excited by the sight of my own body, but now I was so much more in tune with it.

  Sitting with all the guys in their lap dances who unabashedly told me their sexual fantasies, ranging from unique and kinky to straight-up disturbing and illegal, had really helped me unleash my own. Much like these guys in the club, I didn’t get to act on most of these fantasies, but hearing them be so forward about them had unlocked a part of me. And while I didn’t have anyone to sit and listen to the details of my fantasies (unless they were specifically about Rob, then they would get transcribed into text messages to him), the fantasies were now at least free to roam around my brain and get me excited. I had a little Rolodex of filthy images in my brain that helped me get aroused during lap dances . . . and sometimes made subway rides a little more exciting.

  Right now, a new one came into my brain, inspired by the Tahitian jizz running down my thighs. I re-enacted a much filthier version of the terribly mundane situation that had just occurred in my living room. In my fantasy, I walked in the door and told Rob that I had a really bad day, and he told me that to cheer me up, he was going to gangbang me with his other bandmates. In this version of the story, none of them had pants on, and there was certainly no Xbox. In this version of the story, I walked straight to the couch, and the three of them tore off my romper and had their way with me.

  Rob threw me down and licked my pussy, while the other two guys stood beside me with their giant cocks near my face, and I stroked them with my hands. Rob took a break from licking and aggressively grabbed onto my clit. “See guys, that’s her clit. When you get in there, just run on it like this, and she’ll go crazy.”

  It was so kind of him to show his bandmates the way around my pussy. I stroked the bandmates’ cocks, one in each hand. They were so hard, and I could see the vulnerability in their faces, the same way I saw it in the guys I gave lap dances to. Only here they didn’t have to keep their hands behind their backs or their cocks inside of their pants. Rob lifted my legs up and inched his cock into my pussy slowly.

  I slid my fingers inside of myself, thinking of his cock sliding inside me, while the guy who went by Digger started fucking my face. Sean assisted by rubbing my clit, just as Rob had instructed him to do.

  My fantasy went to a place I didn’t expect it to. Rob pulled his cock out of my pussy, and then Sean took Rob’s thick cock and put it in HIS mouth. Sean put his hands behind his back and grunted with pleasure as he eased Rob’s cock down his throat. I sat there mesmerized by this sandwich of sexual testosterone that I wanted to bite into. Their connection was so carnal—the image of these two stallions eagerly feeding each other made me want to sacrifice my body to them in some very dangerous ways. Rob rolled his eyes into the back of his head and curled his lip as his cock was swallowed. Sean sucked Rob’s cock better than I did, I had to admit. They had spent a significant amount of time together on the road, so it made sense.

  Panting from Sean’s blow job, Rob eventually stepped aside, and gave Sean a nod. Sean got in between my legs. He slid his length inside me, while making out with Rob and stroking Rob’s cock. Digger was still fucking my face, and my saliva was running all the way down my body. “Come on, fuck her,” Rob instructed, and Sean thrust himself deeper inside of me. I felt like a guest of honor in this house of gorgeous men.

  Digger took his dick out of my mouth, and then he pushed Sean aside, interrupting him mid-stroke. Digger picked me up and put me on all fours on my couch. Then he slid in behind me and pounded me, doggy-style. He slapped my ass. Rob was standing next to me getting his dick sucked by Sean, and I could hear him groaning over the sound of Digger’s body slapping against my pussy.

  Sean took Rob’s dick out of his mouth and got on all fours on the other end of the couch, where Rob started fucking his ass. It was a doggy-style fucking party, all on my couch, and in this fantasy, my couch was a lot bigger and could actually hold two different sets of people fucking at the same time. Rob kept pushing himself into Sean, and I kept getting railed by Digger, as his shaggy blond hair shook back and forth. Rob pulled his dick out of Sean’s ass, who was groaning and moaning with pleasure, and he stuck it in my mouth. I could taste Sean in my mouth, along with the delightful taste of Rob’s cock. I could also taste drops of pre-cum dripping out of Rob’s cock, and felt spoiled by the snack. It was like an appetizer of jizz before my giant entrée to come later.

  Rob pulled me forward so that I slid off of Digger’s cock, and he lay down on the couch. He told me to sit on his dick. He pulled me toward his muscular chest and whispered in my ear, “Be a good whore for me,” and instantly I gushed all over his cock.

  At this point, in reality, I was sitting down in my tub, using my removable shower nozzle, hitting my clit with the scalding hot water, with my pussy gyrating in the water as hard as it could. My body was still covered in sudsy soap, and my hair was dripping down my face. I was pinching my nipples and shoving my fingers down my own throat. I guess I was . . . gangbanging myself in whatever way I possibly could.

  In my fantasy, as I lay against Rob’s lithe chest, I felt the head of his dick searching for my entrance, finally finding it and slipping in easily to the base. Digger then crawled up behind me and slid into my asshole, while Rob
was still inside of my pussy. Sean, wanting in on the action, went around and dipped his cock into my parted mouth. I was air-tight with cock. Every opening filled. All the men were looking at each other, but also all focused on me. It was a fantasy, so anything was possible. I was being double-penetrated, cocks were stretching open all my holes. I was sliding back and forth on the two cocks, trying to soak in all the sensation. Digger pulled out of my ass, and Sean and he switched places. Rob stayed deep inside my pussy, pounding away as his bandmates took turns in my ass. It was like my pussy belonged to him, but my mouth and ass were up for grabs. It was romantic, and I liked it.

  My pussy pulsated, in both reality and fantasy. The stream of water was pressed hard against my insides, and I stuck a finger in my ass. This was actually the first time I’d stuck anything in my ass while masturbating, but it was also my first time in a bisexual gangbang. Although, since that was only happening in my brain, I wasn’t sure if that counted.

  As the tension built, and the fantasy cocks pushed harder into every hole, I started cumming. I felt such a strong release inside of me—my pelvis was arched out, fucking the air and the water, while my finger remained in my ass. I was soaking wet with my own orgasm, the shower water, and the milky white soap.

  In my fantasy, I came so hard on the two cocks inside of me. As the first wave of orgasm peaked, I crawled off of Rob, got on my knees, and watched as Rob jerked off Sean, Sean jerked off Digger, and Digger jerked off Rob. I was inside a circle jerk, as they all got each other to the point of completion. And then, I was showered in all of their loads, at the exact same time. I would imagine if this actually ever happened (which it never would), the guys wouldn’t be able to coordinate quite that well, but since this was my fantasy, perfectly synchronized jizz was completely possible.

  I was covered in their cum, aka the white, scented soap. They all patted me on the head and told me I was a good slut. I lay in my “modern” tub, with my body feeling like goo. I’d successfully masturbated away my hangover and my anger, and I felt re-energized and revitalized. I washed the soap off and grabbed a towel, which felt decadently soft against my sensitive skin.

  I left the bathroom and walked back to my living room, freshly showered and wearing only my towel. Just as I suspected, Rob, Digger, and Sean were deliberating over which weapon to trade in as Rob’s anthropomorphic lizard character argued with the town elf. There wasn’t going to be any dragon slaying, and there also wasn’t going to be a gangbang, so there wasn’t much for me to stick around for. I walked past the couch and continued into my bedroom, deciding the best thing to do right then was to sink into my IKEA bed frame and take a nap.

  To go back and see what happens if Naomi stays at the club, turn to page 184.

  To continue with Naomi in this fantasy, turn to page 195.

  “Thanks for the advice, but I don’t want to go home yet. I’m gonna stick it out,” I said. Just the thought of walking through Times Square on a Friday afternoon amongst hundreds of tourists in this weather made my hangover worse, and I certainly hadn’t made enough money (any money) to justify taking a Lyft. It was worth it to stay here and make zero dollars, if only for the sake of using their air conditioner. I also wasn’t sure how I would explain to Rob why I was home early from my job, when I couldn’t tell him what my job was, and that kind of pressure definitely wouldn’t help my hangover.

  “Alright, then you better go drink some electrolytes and suck it up.” She smiled and walked away. I trudged toward the “bar” and stared down the odd selection of juices. Green Machine, Berry Blast, Mighty Mango . . . they all sounded way too intimidating for me right now. This was some very aggressive juice.

  I signaled for Rachel (the bartender) to come over. Over the course of the time that I’d worked here, I’d seen her wear every color of sparkly Uggs—green, blue, pink, purple, red, silver, and gold—but today she wore a multicolored pair. I wondered if that pair of Uggs was created from all the residual glitter that had spilled off the other Uggs. I remembered when I used to be so baffled by her hideous shoes, but now, being a consistent wearer of sparkly clothing myself, it just made sense.

  “Do we still have coconut water?” I asked. Coconut water was a hot commodity here. A pallet of juices was delivered to the club every other week, and while there was always a surplus of Mighty Mangos and Green Machines, the coconut water went fast. I’d suggested to Tony before to simply order more coconut and less Mighty Mango, but he didn’t take my suggestion seriously. He had a big passion for liquid mangos on steroids, and some kind of bias against hydration and coconuts.

  “I’m sorry, we’re out. We get some more in on Monday.” She looked truly remorseful, even though I knew this coconut issue was way above her pay grade. She handed me a bottle of Mighty Mango, and I thought this day just could not get any worse. I took one sip of the thick yellow beverage, and didn’t feel mighty.

  I surveyed the room. I tried to use my stripper sight to get a sense of who might want a lap dance. The four customers who had dissed me by the stage were out of the question. There were about a dozen people in here, and all it would take was one single person who was horny, had a credit card, and wasn’t totally disgusted by me to turn this day around. If one person got three dances and left a tip, that would be about enough for an electric bill.

  Melody walked on stage. Shit. It was pointless for me to even try to get an electric bill out of anyone now. Melody would snare all eyes in the room.

  At this point in my stripping “career,” I knew I wasn’t shy—I will admit I enjoyed spreading my pussy lips open in front of strangers and seeing their reactions. When I threw my legs up in the air, it looked dramatic simply due to the amount of leg that I had—what I lacked in tits and ass, I made up for in leg, and I used this to whatever advantage I could on stage.

  I was basically a horny person having some fun up there. Most of the clubs in New York were “topless,” meaning the girls just stripped down to a thong. In some places they even wore pasties. Quite frankly, I didn’t know how I would survive in one of those establishments, because the reveal of the inner folds of my labia was the most exciting part of my show.

  But, unlike me, Melody was an actual entertainer. She knew how to do more than just take her clothes off and spread her holes open. I often saw men who’d been sitting as far away from the stage as possible get up and flock to the stage to tip her. Today, in a vest/belt/thong combo, she made her entrance to “White Wedding” by Billy Idol.

  Melody grabbed the pole and spun around it swiftly. She walked around the stage confidently before taking off a single piece of clothing, or even looking at anyone. Her strut sent a message: “I’m gonna put on a fucking show. Watch it or not, I don’t care.” The same men who may or may not have been alive during my set were now full of life, and full of dollar bills. She climbed up the pole and did a whole number of tricks up there, moving her body weight around the pole and sticking her legs out in different directions, even flipping upside down. As she was upside down, she managed to slide her fingers to her thong and slip it off.

  Dismounting from the pole, she got down on her knees and opened her vest, revealing her breasts to the crowd. She did this little party trick where she lifted her arms up and raised each breast individually, then together, then individually. People got a real kick out of this. Melody removed her studded belt and threw it on the back of a customer’s neck. She used her belt as a tool to bring the guy’s face right into her breasts, and she suffocated him while shaking back and forth. Everyone looked intimidated and turned on at the same time. Myself included.

  She spread her legs open in the last few moments of the song, strategically in front of the guy who’d tipped the most. She made a little V shape around her pussy lips, and barely spread them open a little further. The guy’s eyes gazed between her lips without shame, his jaw dropped and his mouth watered, and just when he looked like he was about to explode in his own pants, she closed her legs and giggled. She knew exactly how to
toy with everyone’s emotions ... including mine.

  When the song ended, someone immediately swooped her up before she even had time to get her vest back on. She was whisked away off the floor and sent directly into the VIP room. Watching Melody’s stage show gave me a second wind, or, a wind, since I never really had a first one. Her pole tricks, combined with my now finished bottle of Mighty Mango, gave me the strength that I needed to get that electric bill paid.

  I walked toward a cluster of suits with a smile on my face, like I was ready for battle. I sat down next to a bald, portly man. He didn’t seem remotely interested in me, but I was ready to flirt. However, before I could, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw Melody behind me. The bald guy seemed a lot more excited now that she was there, but she didn’t address him at all.

  “Hey, come with me, this guy wants me to bring a friend in.” She pulled me in her direction and didn’t give me the option to say no. I still wasn’t letting this bald guy off the hook. He WOULD get a dance from me later, or the wrath of the Mighty Mango would be coming for him.

  Melody pulled me into an area behind a thick red velvet curtain. There was nothing but a plush couch in there, and a little end table. Melody plopped herself down on the couch like it was her throne. I sat down next to her, right in front of an old silver fox, who looked like he was a direct descendant of the Rockefellers. He had on a black suit, a white shirt, and a red patterned tie that had been loosened up by Melody. Why on earth was he sitting on the floor? Did Melody charge extra, on top of the $500, to have couch access in the VIP room?

  Melody kicked her dagger heels off, and the guy on the floor immediately started rubbing her feet.

  “This is Richard,” she purred. “He loves my feet, and he’s gonna love yours too! Isn’t that right Richard?”